Every Beating Heart
by JubileeKnight
Summary: They said confession was good for the soul. Mordecai wouldn't know. Missing Moment.


A/N: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci and all characters and settings appearing in this fic are the property of Diana Wynne Jones's estate.

Every Beating Heart

" _A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!"_

~ Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_

Mordecai paced a wide circle around the castle grounds, making sure to keep out of range of the spearmen outside the perimeter. For all that he'd spent the majority of the day on a trance couch, he was bone-weary. Granted, spirit-traveling could wear a body out with the concentration and magical energy required, and he hadn't exactly gotten a restful sleep the night previous. Best not to think about that, or about his prospects once this was over (the Government was certainly not about to bind itself to promises made to a twelve-year-old boy by a handful of staff in a moment of desperation), or about Christopher's offer to let him flee - had it been this morning?

Fortunately, the rustle of skirts brushing the grass distracted him from those thoughts to equally excruciating ones. "Keeping an eye on me?" he said aloud, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm not running off." As he'd pointed out earlier, without her magic, she couldn't stop him if he tried.

Rosalie's voice was disdainful. "You needn't think everything is about you," she said, coming up beside him. "Anyway, I highly doubt you'd have any success charming the Arm of Asheth to let you through."

A tiny bud of something that hadn't been hope withered in Mordecai's chest. "I managed well enough to escape their notice before," he said lightly.

There was a distinctly unamused silence, followed by a sudden enlightened breath. "The Asheth Temple cat," said Rosalie. " _You_ brought That Thing from Series Ten?"

She couldn't really think less of him at this point. "I wanted to see if it could be done," said Mordecai lightly.

" _You_ wanted," said Rosalie flatly. "Not the Wraith?"

"He was eager enough to take up the idea when I suggested transporting something alive, but yes." They said confession was good for the soul. Mordecai wouldn't know. "I'd just met Christopher, and as you may have noticed, the usual rules seem to take a holiday where he's concerned."

A smothered giggle, more hysterical than amused, escaped Rosalie. It was slightly heartening. "What were you thinking?" she asked. " _Were_ you thinking?"

That was a different question than the 'why' she'd asked during his interrogation. "I do think on occasion," he protested. "I just try not to do too much of it outside of the moment."

"You fooled us all for years," said Rosalie. The bitterness in her voice scraped like sandpaper. "That takes some thought."

It didn't really. He'd done best when he hadn't thought too much about what he was doing, when he could pretend to believe the lie of the moment and forget it immediately after. But Rosalie wasn't done.

"Why bring it here, then?" she asked. "The Wraith must have been unhappy to lose it."

"Oh, he was," said Mordecai remembering the angry order to find the missing animal. But Argent had let it slip through his own fingers. He couldn't blame Mordecai for that. It was a petty rebellion, but it had saved one life. Not the most important one, but still. He peered at the point in the hedge nearest them. There was no gap in the spells there, but it was better than looking at Rosalie. "Christopher took a spear through the chest in the temple."

The rustle of skirts ceased. Rosalie had stopped walking. Mordecai could feel her appalled gaze on him.

He drew breath and then turned back to her, smiling. "You were starting to forget what a blackguard I am."

She collected herself. "I've known _that_ for years now." But her face, paler than usual in the moonlight, belied the words.

"You do know me best." Mordecai matched her tone. Sarcasm helped him feel less like he was slowly drowning. He remembered Christopher's question about the mermaids, and tried to force his head above water with another confession. "That - I would take back if I could do it over."

"Spilt milk," said Rosalie scathingly. "And it would have deprived us of our guard dog now."

"Guard cat." Mordecai had earned the scorn. "No fear of crying," he said. He'd rubbed his skin raw trying to wash away the memory, but he hadn't wept. "It's one of a very few things."

She flinched, but didn't ask if _they_ were one of those few (Yes. No. Never.). Mordecai couldn't decide if he was sorry or relieved. He _could_ lie to her. He had years of experience with that, but he never took pleasure in it. "Rosalie," he began. He'd never had less right to speak.

A sound like a dozen church bells clanging at once interrupted him. "The Wraith," he said, turning towards the hedge, a spell on his lips, even as the words left them.

"We'll need Christopher," said Rosalie.

He didn't watch her go.


End file.
